


The Fifth Notch

by sachspanner



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Canon Compliant, Era-Compliant Homophobia, First Time, Hot Chocolate, M/M, Oral Sex, Pre-Canon, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-16
Updated: 2014-08-27
Packaged: 2018-02-13 11:13:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2148597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sachspanner/pseuds/sachspanner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A teenage Greg Lestrade decides to make the fifth person he sleeps with something special. Really, he has absolutely no idea what he's doing, and luckily, he meets someone who can help.</p><p>Many thanks to DemonicSymphony for beta. All remaining issues are a direct result of my stubbornness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> 17-year old Greg summarises his sexual experiences thus far, and has the spark of an idea.

**One** \- Jane, the appropriately named. They were sixteen, sharing each other's first time. They failed to make much eye contact, never quite got in sync, and as a result neither one of them got off. Greg had worried that the problem would be getting off too early, not having to walk home with an erection that wouldn't wilt quickly enough.

She'd been his girlfriend at the time, but almost as soon as they'd figured out their rhythmic differences, they realised they didn't actually like each other any more.

 **Two** \- Sara, his best mate Neil's girlfriend at the time. It had been heat of the moment, and the punch in the jaw Greg earned himself had been thoroughly deserved. Sara hadn't been afraid to tell him out loud what she wanted from him in bed, which had been a revelation.

 **Three** \- Helen, she of the condom scare. Lessons learnt from one and two very much in place, things were going well. That was until about three weeks in, when she pulled out a rubber, he put it on, and the damn thing broke at the critical moment. Turned out she'd nicked it from her older brother's bedside drawer, and it had expired.

This prompted the most nervous four weeks of Greg's short life, and rather unsurprisingly, once enough doctors' waiting-rooms had been waited in, the relationship ended.

 **Four** \- Shaz, the only girl who'd ever made him cry. She knew how to do things with her tongue the others didn't, and at seventeen, that's as close to love as makes no difference. Only, she didn't think so. Ran off to Benidorm with a married man, and sent a postcard back to Greg with all the details.

Greg cried, but mostly it was his pride that was wounded- she'd made him feel quite inadequate.

 **Five** \- Greg knew five would be better. He was holding out for five, because five was a milestone, and it had to be good in the same way that number one couldn't have been. Anyone who says the night they broke their duck was special (for the right reasons) is either lying or bloody lucky.

Greg knew the lie of the land now, he reckoned, or as much as anyone on the verge of turning eighteen. He knew what unspoken cues meant stop, or move, or _for the love of God, do that again_. Perhaps one day, with enough experience, he'd be able to spot an ear-biter at first glance. Greg was not a fussy man, but he was fairly sure that ear-nibbling had been a feature of all his successful sexual encounters.

Five had to be special, _different somehow_. He'd had a blonde, a brunette, an E-cup and an A-cup, because variety is the spice of life, and the closest horny teenagers get to a type is "breathing". And, in Greg's case, female.

Though, one evening, as he sat proofreading his Somerset and Bath Constabulary application form for the umpteenth time, it occurred to him that it needn't be. Why should he only have sex with women? He was fairly sure he wasn't gay. He was also fairly sure he might not care one way or the other.


	2. Breaching an Impasse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Greg's eighteenth birthday, and he knows exactly how he wants to spend it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning in advance for casual, era-apt homophobia.
> 
> Also, I was writing, and smut happened. That's not really happened to me before.

'What do you want to do for your birthday?' Neil asked on their way home from school. He had long since moved on from Sara. 

"Gay club on West Street." 

If he said it confidently, it would be like it didn't matter. He wasn't questioning his sexuality. It was 1981, he was in the prime of his life and so was everyone he could possibly sleep with. 

"Ha ha," Neil replied drily. "And seriously?" 

"I am serious," Greg shrugged. "Not gay, but- you've got to, once, right?" 

"Firstly- no, you don't. Secondly - this is your _eighteenth_ birthday. You're never getting this back. You seriously want to spend it with a cock up your arse?" 

"No!" Greg responded automatically, pulling a face. "I'm a red-blooded male. If anyone's sticking anything anywhere, it's me." 

"It doesn't make it any less ginger beer," Neil shook his head in disgust. "And I'm definitely not going." 

'"Cheers. Known each other six years; just because I want to do something new _for once_ , you've turned your back on me." 

Neil blanched at the choice of words. 

"Not likely." 

Neil had, in the end, come around. Greg was, after all, as straight as they come- football, lager, shagging his ex, that sort of thing. It was just one night, after all, and he figured if he took a date, things would work out brilliantly. Girls liked that sort of thing. Left-wing progressive stuff. 

That was how he sold it to Chris and Steve, too. 

"Socialist birds are the only ones worth shagging," he explained. "And socialist birds like gays; it's fact." 

He knew a couple of girls he could set them up with too, he said. If Greg wanted to ruin his own birthday, that was up to him. But he'd be damned if the rest of them didn't enjoy their Friday night. 

*** 

"I'm telling Lucy you're gay, you know," Neil said on the Wednesday. 

"But I'm not," Greg protested. 

"Then how am I supposed to explain why we're taking you to a gay club? 'Lucy, meet Greg. He only fucks poofs on special occasions.' " 

"Fair point." 

"Exactly. I've known you years, but this is weird, even for you." 

"Why is it weird? I'm young, I'm attractive, and sex is sex. I'll never be sexier, and the people I shag will never be sexier. If you had to shag one bloke in your life, wouldn't you rather they were twenty, not fifty?" 

"Luckily, they scrapped National Service. Don't have to join the Navy any more." 

Greg chuckled. 

"Who did you find for Chris and Steve?" 

Neil thought for a second. 

"Toni, the nice black girl from school, remember? She's at secretarial college now. And her mate Sue." 

"Very nice." 

"You keep your eyes off. You start flirting with birds, the rest of us start to look suspect." 

"Alright, alright. But you could just say I'm bi." 

"No way, mate. Bi's for rockstars. Bowie. He's never even seen a bloke naked I reckon, but he just says he's bi and there's girls lined up outside his tour bus from here to Land's End. Last thing I need is you oozing progressive socialist sex appeal." 

"You know you ought to wear eyeliner or something? Girls like that, now." 

"Nah. Not in a poofs' bar, anyway." 

Greg rubbed his eyes in exasperation. 

Come Friday, they drank a few cans at Chris's before heading out. Greg had a small tube of lubricant in his pocket, just in case. He was inexplicably thirsty, and had barely walked into the bar before buying himself another drink. 

He was wearing black jeans and a yellow t-shirt, hoping his boots made up for how casual he looked. Casual was who he was, though. Greg hadn't had any expectations of the club, but it was more of an ill-lit bar, with a pool table in the corner. If it hadn't been for the fact that the room was filled almost entirely with men, it could have been anywhere.   
The guys in there were mostly a lot older than him. There were hairy guys, bald guys, ugly guys - call him shallow, but Greg had been hoping to find someone even vaguely attractive. He downed his drink and tried to focus on the music and not be too disappointed. 

Neil shouted something inaudible in Greg's vague direction. 

"What?!" 

"I said, we’re just heading out for a smoke. Coming?" 

Greg nodded, and half the party traipsed outside to a small cordoned-off area. Greg lit up, and breathed in relief, closing his eyes. When he opened them, there was a young man stubbing out just in front of him. 

When Greg had briefly imagined the sort of man he might end up going home with, they were always young, athletic, casually dressed, conventionally attractive. He was young and vain, and if he'd been honest with himself, might have realised that his definition of _conventionally attractive_ meant someone who looked fairly similar to himself. 

This man wasn't like that. Although not exceptionally bad-looking, he was nothing special. Where Greg's hair was dark and styled, this man's was deep auburn, and made him look older than he actually was. In reality they were about the same age, but didn't look or dress like it. 

Where his features weren't bland, they sat awkwardly on his face. He was fairly lean but in no way muscular, and the combination of shirt and trousers was something Greg might have worn for a job, but never in his free time. 

Yet it was the way he held himself, and the confidence which shone through his eyes which made him the only man to catch Greg's eye that night. The man gave him an assessing look and smiled. 

"I'd say _your place or mine_ , but you still live with your parents- so mine it is." 

With that, the strange man ducked under the cordon and walked off up the street. After a baffled look towards Neil, Greg followed. 

"You can't just presume." 

"I never presume," he smirked. "You are following me, after all." 

"Shit." Greg felt wrongfooted. "I'm Greg, by the way." 

"Mycroft." 

"Seriously?" 

"Hmm." 

It was sudden, but maybe that was a good thing. Greg had half-expected his friends to intervene should he attempt to flirt with men, and it was as if this man had sensed that anxiety, and taken steps to avoid the situation arising. Or perhaps that's just how things worked in that club. Greg knew nothing about anything, and had never felt it so strongly.

Mycroft's flat wasn't too far out of the centre, and they didn't talk much on the way. Greg found himself both nervous and excited, and Mycroft, from the mirth in his eyes, seemed to know. 

The flat was nice: small but nicely furnished, the kitchen was separated from the living room only by a section of counter, and a dark doorway led to what Greg realised with trepidation was the bedroom. 

Mycroft proceeded to pour himself a glass of wine, then passed the bottle to Greg. 

"I don't really drink wine." 

Mycroft smiled. 

"Well, I don't really drink lager. Have we reached an impasse?" 

Lestrade grinned, nodding, and poured the wine into a tumbler. Mycroft winced gently. 

"I know it's the wrong glass," Greg explained with a mischievous smile. "I just wanted to see what you'd do." 

Mycroft paused a moment before pouring his own wine into a tumbler. 

"Cheers." 

He clinked their glasses, matching Greg mischief for mischief, and led the way into the living room. They sat at opposite ends of a small sofa. Mycroft spoke. 

"You ought not to seem so much like this is your first time." 

"Fifth," Greg corrected. 

"Man?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow. 

Greg looked at his glass. 

"Well," Mycroft went on. "There's two ways of doing this. Either we keep with the wine until our higher functions devolve and we revert to our basest instincts, or- I could pull the old palm-reading routine?" 

Greg laughed. 

"Alright, then," he set his glass on the floor. "What hand do you write with?" 

Mycroft held out his right hand, with half an eye on the glass perilously close to Greg's left foot. Greg took the hand, humming interestedly as he ran his fingers across the palm. 

"A very prominent love line," Greg raised an eyebrow. "And your fortune line, if I'm not mistaken-" 

"-If you tell me I'm about to _get lucky_ , I will kick your delightful arse into the street." 

Greg grinned. 

"I was going to say there's a dark, sexy stranger in your immediate future. But that one's better." 

Mycroft rolled his eyes in amused impatience, letting his hand drift up to Greg's triceps before breaking contact again. Greg found himself shifting forward, momentarily bereft at the loss of touch. 

They chatted- Greg was in his final year of sixth form; Mycroft just returned from his first year of university- Oxford, naturally. Inch by inch, as they talked, they rearranged themselves. Shoes were kicked off and feet ran along the other's thigh; Greg gesticulated to make a point and ended up somewhere else entirely. 

Before long, Greg was lying with his back to Mycroft's torso, Mycroft's right leg running parallel to his own and with a hand on the knee of Mycroft's left, which trailed onto the floor. After a few moments of running his hands through the bristle-short hair at Greg's nape, Mycroft leant forward and kissed, licked, bit Greg's ear. 

Greg was undone. He sighed and relaxed back, his hand running up Mycroft's thigh, which felt firm and powerful and put him in mind of nothing else but sex. When Mycroft released his ear, he knew exactly what do to. He turned around and they were kissing, _kissing_ , and there were teeth and it turned Greg on just to find how hungry Mycroft was- and indeed, just how hungry he was. 

Greg's jeans were becoming too tight to bear, and as he leant back to undo his fly, he caught the action of Mycroft doing the same, watching in fascination as the glistening head of Mycroft's cock was revealed. This was a man. He was really doing this. 

He must have stared, because Mycroft stood, then, kissing him, hands wandering as he led Greg to the bedroom. A shove sent Greg sprawling onto the bed, and as much as he tried not to look needy, the look on Mycroft's face as he unbuttoned his shirt told him he had failed. 

Greg began to strip too: socks, t-shirt, then jeans, scrambling out of them before Mycroft had even shrugged his shirt off. This left Mycroft _watching_ him as he eased his own trousers off, and Greg had nothing to do but watch him back. 

He didn't fold his clothes, but still took his time draping them neatly over the bedstead, socks balled. Greg had dismissed him as unathletic, but as he moved he could see muscles shifting, and his cock twitched in response. 

Mycroft pulled open a drawer on the bedside table, the head of his cock leaving sticky trails on his stomach as he bent down. Greg looked up to find the other man holding a tube of lubricant, condom packet in his teeth. 

"Oh," Greg shifted away a little as Mycroft moved down over him. "I thought I might be the one to..." 

He trailed off, his meaning, he hoped, clear. Mycroft spat the condom to one side. 

"In time, perhaps," Mycroft smiled, his left hand punctuating his words by stroking Greg's cock. "And as much as I would perhaps agree with you, forgive me if I do not place myself in your inexperienced hands. Not without a little instruction." 

Greg held his breath as he watched Mycroft coating his fingers with lubricant. 

"But I'm straight - usually. I can't." 

Mycroft's voice lowered to an enticing growl. 

"You're after an experience, aren't you? Well, anyone can give a blow job, and if you close your eyes, one orifice is very like another. But you won't forget me fucking you." 

Without his friends around to call his masculinity into question, Greg found himself nodding. Alone in the moment with Mycroft and a bed and the steadily building scent of sex, his heart raced with the external admission that this was what he really desired. It wasn't emasculating. In fact, as Mycroft's gaze roved hungrily over the musculature of his thighs, Greg found that he had never felt more physically appreciated. He nodded again, licking his lips. 

At the second nod, Mycroft pressed a slick finger to Greg's entrance. The noise Greg made in response was so desperate, it would be useless to pretend that he was anything but utterly won over. 

Mycroft talked to him throughout; the newness of the sensation and the sex-laced voice in his ear rendering Greg wordless, but not voiceless. 

"You're tight, tighter than I am... I know you want more, but you're not ready yet... I've got to be careful, so careful with you... this feels good, doesn't it? It's going to feel even better once I'm properly inside you." 

Greg vocalised, kissing at Mycroft's face and neck until the other man turned to claim his mouth, muffling Greg's surprise as he slipped another finger inside. 

"Open your eyes, Greg... I want you to see... I want you to know how to fuck me... because you do want to fuck me, I know you do... but first I have to teach you..." 

Greg opened his eyes, breathing rapidly. looking at the pale figure of Mycroft, his eyes fogged by sex, licking his lips as he motioned his hand wickedly. 

"It gets easier, after the first time... I won't take nearly as long. But I think you want me now. I think you're ready for me now." 

Greg nodded, heart quickening at the feeling of Mycroft pressing against something deep behind the root of his cock which made him gasp for air. 

"Hmm. Again?" 

Greg gave a strangulated grunt, which Mycroft took as an invitation. It was pleasure, indescribable pleasure. 

Mycroft handed him the condom. 

"Try and get this open. I'll try and distract you." 

Greg thought he'd never manage, with what Mycroft's -three?- fingers were doing, but he got there, handing the rubber to Mycroft. 

"Hmm. You must want this. Good." 

Greg watched Mycroft slide the condom expertly over his thick shaft, barely questioning how he was going to accommodate it before he received an answer. Greg hadn't meant it to be more than one night, but after the brief pain of penetration subsided, and the head of Mycroft's cock brushed against that place deep inside him, he wasn't sure how he'd live without it. 

The sensation was alien but certainly not unpleasant. It wasn't something in his life he had ever been told to want, and yet- his train of thought was cut off by a particularly well-angled thrust. From then, he focused only on the moment, and on the sensation, the steadily-building something quite unlike any orgasm he remembered having before. 

He went to try and relieve the pressure, but found Mycroft gripping him around the wrist. 

"Wait," the other man breathed. "Not long, now, before I come in you." 

Those words made the sensation almost unbearable, and Greg could see Mycroft's face flicker with expressions of passion, until finally the grip around his wrist tightened as he felt Mycroft's cock pulse hot inside him. Shuddering and gasping, Mycroft moved his right hand to Greg's shaft. It was seconds before Greg was coming over his own stomach and chest. 

Greg buried his head under Mycroft's pillow, muffling his panting laughter. For a few moments, they stayed, shuddering spasmodically against each other, not caring for anything. Then Mycroft cautiously withdrew, leaving Greg with a bizarre sensation of loss as he went off to the bathroom to deal with the messy business of the condom. 

Greg found some tissue in the bedside table and cleaned off his front. Awkwardly, he realised that he had spilt slightly onto the immaculate sheets, and tried to clean that up as well. 

As Mycroft walked back into the room, he felt momentarily embarrassed, saying, "I suppose that means this is my side of the bed." 

"Now who's being presumptuous?" 

"Oh," Greg was mildly taken aback. "Just joking. You don't want me to stay the night, it's fine. It's not too late; I have a place I can crash. Do you have a 'phone?" 

Mycroft smirked and kissed him on the forehead. 

"You're staying." 

For that, Greg was grateful. Climax had been intense; if he'd had to describe it, it would have been with a set of Scrabble tiles cast at random, because there wasn't an adjective yet invented. As he showered, and loitered in the en-suite trying to make himself feel _normal_ again, he fancied that it might have been a supernova, or a hollowing-out, or a match striking, but none of it really fit. 

Greg had showered twice, gone for a piss four times (the last three of which had been redundant), combed his hair twice and sat idle on the toilet in varying states of undress no fewer than eight times when Mycroft knocked gently on the door. 

"It's somewhat shell-shocking, the first time, I agree. Do you regret it?" 

"No," Greg admitted. "Sorry I've been so long." 

"Not to worry. I thought I might entice you out with a mug of hot chocolate. Would that work?" 

Greg did his hair one last time and unlocked the door sheepishly, wearing a pair of pyjama bottoms Mycroft had provided for him, and holding the top in his hand. 

"It got wet, the second time I had a shower. Is there a radiator?" 

"I'll hang it next to the boiler. Keep an eye on the milk for me." 

Mycroft disappeared into a cupboard as Greg went back into the kitchen. A small pan of milk sat on the stove, steaming. 

Despite the soporific power of the cocoa, they talked late into the night. They were from vastly different backgrounds and had wildly differing interests, but slowly Greg began to realise that he might be in trouble. He'd just been buggered by a prototype Oxbridge don and _liked_ it. Worse than that, he might even have liked the man himself. 

"Next time you go out looking for gay sex, you might want to take condoms with you," Mycroft yawned matter-of-factly as they lay in bed. "Instead of just the smallest tube of lubricant I've ever seen." 

Greg awkwardly looked at where the offending item had spilt out of his discarded jeans' pocket. 

"It sounds stupid, but I hadn't thought about it. Nobody ever said you could catch the clap like that." 

"No, well they wouldn't. _The unspeakable vice of the Greeks!_ " 

Mycroft chuckled gently to himself and turned out the bedside lamp. Greg fell asleep instantly.


	3. In Daylight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The people we love can be blind to who we are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the late update; I'd had a few and decided not to post while over the limit, as it were.

With girls, morning sex had more often than not been hypothetical. He'd wake up unable to think of anything except the raging erection he was pressing seductively - he hoped - into her thigh, and she would reward him, on rare occasion, with an abortive attempt to copulate, followed by a sleepy hand job. 

Mycroft, however, saw he was awake, and with heavy-lidded eyes said, "I trust you are fully recovered?" Greg responded by pulling the other man into a kiss and swiftly kicking off his trousers. 

Mycroft introduced him to the twin joys of sucking cock and flavoured lubricant ("Without it, it'll taste like French-kissing a rubber glove... ah, teeth! … _Much_ better."), and Greg found that he actually enjoyed the former. When Mycroft pushed him away breathily with, "I want you to fuck me; carry on like that and I'll be finished," Greg found that he missed the heat and the texture filling his mouth, and that despite Mycroft not having touched him for some time, he was as hard as before. 

They fucked again; with Mycroft's guidance, Greg found what he was looking for, closing a fist around Mycroft's cock as he felt himself go over, pumping with such purpose as he had not had since he was thirteen, and first discovering the magic of self-love. 

When Mycroft spilled, partially in Greg's hand, mostly on the sheets, Greg couldn't resist kissing every last inch of him he could reach. They had shared something, now. 

Greg turned down the offer of breakfast, promising as he had to meet Neil at half ten in Rosie's Café, a greasy spoon. Mycroft seemed amused by the idea; Greg imagined he'd have muesli, or kedgeree, or toasted French bread with pate de fois gras, and told him as much. Mycroft responded that if he wanted to find out, he would have to stay over again, and gave Greg his number. 

When Greg turned up at the café, Neil looked distinctly worse for wear, and barely spoke until he had a face full of dripping egg. 

"We left after you did, of course. Past closing time, so we went back to Chris's and finished off the lager. He drifts off upstairs with Sue, Steve and Toni end up doing it in the bathroom, and it's more than clear that Luce isn't interested. I mean, I tried, obviously." 

"Obviously," Greg nodded. 

"But she wasn't interested," Neil sighed. "Not much you can do when they're not interested. So not only did I sleep on the sofa, but got kept awake listening to two of my best mates shagging most of the night. Your night alright, was it?" 

Greg nodded. 

"Oh yeah. Different, obviously. Completely different, in a lot of ways. But he was nice." 

"He was nice?" Neil frowned. "Stay the night, did you?" 

"Oh yeah. Morning sex," Greg grinned. 

"You did it twice?" Neil asked in disbelief. 

"Why not?" Greg shrugged. "It was nice, I did it again." 

"Well, I thought this was just a one-time thing for you." 

"It can be a one-time thing," Greg explained, "without it necessarily being just the one shag. Or just the one night, even." 

"Oh no," Neil shook his head. "No." 

"What?" 

"You got his number, didn't you?" 

"He gave me his number, yeah. I may or may not call it." 

Greg had a stubborn streak a mile wide, which he secretly felt might serve him well should he decide to hand that police application form in. He was generally attracted to taking the course of action which ran opposed to any argument Greg felt was feeble. Neil's argument was certainly that. 

"You don't have to, though." 

"Of course I don't have to," Greg agreed. "But the sex was good, and I'm not going to pretend otherwise. With a bloke, you're on the same page; Mycroft knows his way around a-" 

"-I don't want to know," Neil burst out, before lowering his voice. "You said 'sex is sex' and I went along with it because you're my mate. But it's not the same thing." 

"Of course it's not the same," Greg said through a mouthful of bacon sandwich. 

"I just- don't want to hear about it." 

Greg frowned as he finished his mouthful. 

"What exactly is your problem?" 

"I don't know, Greg. All I know is, you used to be normal, but now you've fucked one guy and what - you're gay?" 

"I still like girls." 

"You've got a boyfriend," Neil hissed, wary of the other customers. 

"Mycroft's not my boyfriend." 

"Well, shut up about him then." 

Greg wanted to bite back, but he could feel Neil spoiling for a fight. He wasn't going to have one in the middle of Rosie's Café. He finished up and put his share of the bill on the table. 

"See you." 

Neil grunted in reply, and as Greg walked out, he found himself wishing that they could just have had it out there and then. 

He'd had great sex. Not even the best sex, but just different sex. More different than any sex Neil had ever bloody had. Every time Neil (who'd had sex for the first time at fifteen and beaten everyone to the punch at everything ever since) discovered a new sexual position, he, Chris, Steve, and anyone in a kilometre radius had needed to hear about it.   
Greg knew why; he wasn't stupid. Some guys get uncomfortable at the thought of two blokes kissing. He kicked angrily at a dustbin, wryly snorting as he realised he hadn't even told Neil the best bit. He'd been buggered: Greg Lestrade _officially_ takes it up the arse. 

Well, took. Just the once. But that could be fixed, couldn't it? 

The more he thought about it, the better an idea it was to call Mycroft. He'd be everything Neil didn't want him to be, purely because Neil didn't want him to be it. He was sick of the hypocrisy of it. Yeah, so the idea of snogging, no, even _fucking_ a man didn't repulse him. Why was he suddenly the strange one? 

He would ring the second he got home.


	4. Myc and Gregory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sunsets are ridden into.

Greg unlocked the door. 

"Morning, love!" his mum called from the settee. "Have a good night?" 

"Yeah," Greg shrugged. "Just going to nip up and get changed." 

"You do that. You had something to eat, yet?" 

"Bacon sandwich." 

He had already disappeared too far upstairs for her to reply. She wasn't fond of shouting, as a rule, and settled back to the telly. 

Greg felt lucky that his parents were the way they were. The pair of them led two very separate lives, and were more than content to do so. As Mrs Lestrade watched telly, Mr Lestrade would be tending the tiny garden. Around lunchtime, she would take out a sandwich, and when he finished it, he would come in to watch football while she went out to do the weekly shopping. Seeing them in the same room was a rarity reserved for entertaining guests. 

It wasn't at all that they didn't get on. They got on phenomenally. They had a mutual understanding which a lot of couples would envy, in that they knew how to keep each other happiest, and completely agreed on the point. 

As parents, they gave Greg no cause for complaint. Their mutual contentedness kept them in good spirits so they were fair, and loved their children equally. Nina, Greg's younger sister, was currently going through a phase which required her to consume a lot of records and wear so much makeup she was hardly recognisable. She'd cut her hair with an old pair of scissors, and all Mrs Lestrade had to say on the subject was, "I did like your hair long." 

Nina hadn't shown any sort of weakness at the time, but Greg had heard her crying later on. Their parents were just so nice, that finding their disapproval, in anything, was horrible. 

So, if, when Greg went home, he hadn't called Mycroft, it was more to do with the fact that the telephone was within hearing distance of his mother than because he actually didn't want to. 

On Sunday morning, his parents left for church, and Nina became distracted by Adam and the Ants. Greg had to seize the opportunity to call. 

"Good morning, Mycroft Holmes speaking." 

"Hi Mycroft. It's Greg. I meant to call yesterday, but there's no such thing as a private conversation in his house." 

"I fathomed as much. Your parents are Anglican?" 

"Yeah. They stopped trying to wake me up for morning mass when I was a teenager." 

"Well, I'm grateful you found the time to call." 

A pause. 

"I thought a picnic might be nice," Greg looked through the window in disgust. "Once the rain lets up." 

"Ah, the joys of the British summer. But I think I can wait that long, for you. In fact, I look forward to it." 

"So, I'll see you, yeah?" 

"Of course. Goodbye, Greg." 

"Bye." 

Greg put the phone down, wondering how Mycroft made his heart beat that fast. 

*** 

Come Monday, it became clear that Neil had not mellowed over the weekend. Until lunchtime, Greg hardly had a chance to speak to him. 

"Look, I'm sorry for storming out the other day. My head was in a bit of a funny place. Mates?" 

Neil thought for a moment before nodding. 

"Alright. I'm sorry, too. The three of us went out to the pub without you, and it was shit. Well, not shit. But not normal, anyway." 

Greg smiled. He understood. 

"I ought to be honest," Greg began awkwardly. "I know it makes you uncomfortable. But I won't stop seeing Mycroft." 

Neil swallowed, nodded and scratched his head. 

"Alright," he said finally. "As long as you know I'm uncomfortable. And so are the others." 

Greg nodded grimly. 

"You must have known, when I said where I wanted to go for my birthday." 

"I didn't want to think about it," Neil admitted. "But I thought- it's your night, you’re my mate. Okay." 

"I'm grateful." 

Neil nodded mutely again. 

"I think," Greg took a deep breath. "I always liked men too. I don't really understand why it's supposed to be different. And I guess I must have thought it was the same for everyone." 

"It's not," Neil smiled finally. 

"I know," Greg sighed with relief. "I know now." 

"So. Bi like Bowie?" 

"Must be." 

"Pub tomorrow night, then. Tell the others? If you're going to keep seeing this guy, they need to hear it from you." 

"Shit," Greg panicked briefly. "If you help me?" 

Neil smiled slightly awkwardly, looking from the formica table to Greg and back again. 

"Yeah. Alright." 

*** 

Greg walked home from school the next day sunning himself, his school blazer draped over his satchel, sleeves rolled up past the elbows. He wasn't looking forward to going to the pub later on. His local didn't have a beer garden, and on evenings like this, it was a shame to be inside. 

"Greg?" his mum called as he opened the door. 

"Hi, mum." 

"Mike called for you earlier," she said, wandering over to the telephone table. 

"Mike?" Greg frowned. "Mike Bourton, from school?" 

"No," she picked up the little notepad and squinted at her own handwriting. "Croft. Mike Croft." 

"Mycroft!" Greg corrected her with a chuckle. "His name's Mycroft. Holmes." 

"Mycroft?" Mrs Lestrade pulled a face. "What an odd name." 

"He happens to like it," Greg smiled. Apparently, Mycroft had agreed with him about it being picnic weather. 

As his mother wandered into the kitchen, he dialled the number. 

"Good afternoon, Mycroft Holmes speaking." 

"Mycroft, it's Greg. Picnic?" 

Greg imagined the smile unfolding on Mycroft's face. 

"I thought so. I got rather ahead of myself, and have bought some cordial, a nice pork pie and a coconut sponge. Do you think you could obtain salad and sandwiches?" 

"Beg, steal or borrow?" 

"You decide. Prince's Park, five thirty?" 

"Yeah. Sounds great. See you then." 

"Goodbye, Gregory." 

Mycroft rang off before Greg had a chance to baulk at the lengthened version of his name. Nobody had called him Gregory since he was out of nappies. 

"Mum," Greg called as he wandered into the kitchen. "Can I make a few sandwiches? Going to go up to the park and eat there." 

"I thought you were going out to the pub tonight?" 

Greg had completely forgotten. 

"Oh. The guys won't mind." 

"So who's the lucky girl?" Mrs Lestrade beamed. 

Greg rolled his eyes, and pulled a loaf out of the breadbin. 

"No girl. Just a friend." 

"A friend who just happens to be a girl?" she asked teasingly. 

"Not even that." 

She watched him spread butter thickly onto the sandwiches. 

"I needn't worry about leaving you anything to eat, then?" 

Greg nodded, the signs of his good mood refusing to leave his features. 

"I'll be alright, yeah." 

Food prepared, and bundled into tupperware, Greg went to get showered and changed. 

Rummaging through his drawers, he selected his least-creased t-shirt. He didn't have any clean jeans, so picked up a pair that had been draped over his chair. He groaned. He would have to call Neil. 

"Hello?" 

"Hi Neil, it's Greg." 

A beat. 

"No. _No_ , Greg." 

"I'm not saying I'll never come to the pub. Just not today." 

"No. You keep telling me to be your friend, but what about me? When are you going to start being _my_ friend?" 

"Thursday? Friday? It's just... it's a nice day. I said I'd go out with Mycroft on the next nice day." 

"Bring him to the pub!" 

"I can't bring _Mycroft_ to the pub." 

"What do you mean, you can't bring Mycroft to the pub? Is he better than us?" 

"He's just- different. Can we do pub later this week?" 

"No!" Neil insisted. "I'm not going to ruin my evening just because you wanted it ruined. I just don't know any more, alright?" 

Greg sighed. 

"It's just this once-" 

"Until it's next time too. I'll see you, Greg." 

"Bye." 

Well, that was a way to dampen anyone's spirits. Greg rubbed his face exasperatedly. He probably ought to start walking down to the park. 

"Afternoon, Gregory," Mycroft smiled from under the shade of an oak. 

"Don't call me that." 

Greg had meant to keep his bad mood out of his voice, but failed. He sighed. 

"Difficult day, was it?" 

"Difficult last few minutes." 

Greg flopped to the ground, handing the tupperware to Mycroft without a glance. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see mild concern on the face of the other young man, but ignored it. He would enjoy the sunshine and the breeze, and not worry about Neil and his ridiculous attitude. 

He forced a small smile. 

"When I got in from school, my mum told me someone called 'Mike' had been trying to call me. I couldn't think who it was." 

"My mother calls me Myc," Mycroft winced. "I can't abide it." 

Greg smirked, and caught his eye finally. 

"And I _can't abide_ being called Gregory. Let's make a deal. I don't call you Myc; you don't call me Gregory." 

Mycroft handed him a plate of picnic fare. 

"The terms are acceptable." 

As they ate, they each wore small smiles. Greg finished up his egg sandwich. 

"Sorry. If I snapped." 

"You are forgiven." 

Mycroft set his plate aside and kissed Greg gently on the cheek. Although Greg hoped his flinch had been imperceptible, the look on Mycroft's face told him otherwise. 

"I don't mean anything by it, Mycroft." 

Mycroft dusted crumbs off himself. 

"I understand _completely_." 

"I don't think you do," Greg said earnestly. "I want you to kiss me. It sounds silly, because we only just met, but if you told me you were never going to kiss me again, I don't know what I'd do. But we're in public." 

"You're ashamed," Mycroft nodded. "Of yourself, and of me." 

Greg flailed. 

"Yes? Does saying it make it better? This," he gestured between them, "confuses me." 

"It's simple enough to understand." 

"Maybe. For you. But not everyone's _like_ you, Mycroft. If they were, maybe this wouldn't be killing me." 

With a condescending glare, Mycroft made eye contact at last. 

"Don't be melodramatic, Greg." 

"I'm not," Greg swallowed. "I'm not." 

Helpless, Greg watched as Mycroft packed up the miserable picnic, lips pursed, nostrils flaring gently as he controlled his ire. Greg had done that. By being frightened, Greg had done that. 

"Goodbye, Greg." 

Mycroft held out a hand to shake, and for a second, Greg hated his buttoned-up ways, his insistence on being calm, not railing at him when he had every right. Greg wanted to be told that he was an idiot, that he shouldn't ever be ashamed for being attracted to another man. But Mycroft wouldn't do it. 

"Not a chance." 

There was no other option. Greg seized his hand, and led, or rather dragged, Mycroft out of the park. 

"I must ask that you let go, Greg. I thought you wanted to avoid a scene." 

"Tell me honestly," Greg looked back, still gripping the other man's hand. "Do you want me? Do you like me?" 

Mycroft considered their joined hands carefully. 

"Yes." 

At that, Greg let go, moving instead to kiss a startled Mycroft. 

"So- come with me to the pub." 

He smiled, continuing to walk in the direction of said establishment as Mycroft watched, baffled. 

"I do not frequent public houses, Greg," Mycroft scoffed. 

"I know," Greg smirked, tongue flicking mischievously to his teeth. "But I don't care. Come." 

Sniffing, Mycroft followed. Much for his controlled confidence, Greg could see that leaving his comfort zone almost frightened Mycroft. Good. That made two of them. 

Whether or not Neil and the others would be there at all, Greg didn't know. He wasn't trying to make a grand statement- this wasn't a film. He was just getting his affairs in order. 

They were there, of course, sat around a table utterly unaware of his dramatic entrance. He picked up a stool in each hand and walked over. 

"Hi," he said. "We're joining you." 

While Chris and Steve looked over Mycroft curiously, Neil simply stared angrily at Greg. 

"What now?" he asked. 

Greg sat, and to his relief, Mycroft joined him, the warm shin tucked behind his own calf somehow reassuring. 

"I've not been a very good friend to you, Neil. Not any of you, really." 

He looked about the group. Neil was still staring, Chris seemed to accept the implied apology, and Steve was still watching Mycroft. Mycroft, for his turn, had his arms folded in his lap and was examining the décor, or at least appearing to. 

Chris shrugged. 

"So, what- does that mean you're getting a round in for once?" 

Greg chuckled, and dug three pound notes out of his pocket. 

"Alright. But no, it means I'm being honest with you," he looked at Mycroft. "This is Mycroft. He's the guy I met in the club the other night. They guy I- well, you know that bit. But what you didn't know is- he's not even the first guy I've fancied." 

He turned to look at each of them, then, defiantly. His heart was beating ten to the dozen but he'd be damned if he let it show on his face. 

Neil, cowed, looked at his pint glass. Chris looked shellshocked. Steve didn't know where to look, and appeared to be blushing. These were his friends, who he'd known from school. 1970s grammar school boys with the best free education in the country, and they had no idea what to do. It almost made Greg laugh. 

"This isn't," he went on, "even about Mycroft. It is a little bit, because if he tries kissing me in public I panic, and I _hate_ that. It's about me. Getting to do what I want to do, _fuck_ who I want to fuck - and yes, get fucked by him too- and not feel embarrassed by it on your behalf. I suppose I'm _bisexual_ , really. After Mycroft, I might go back to women. I might not. Get it?" 

If Chris had looked shellshocked before, he was now imitating a fish on dry land. Finally he gathered his wits. 

"I think we're going to need that round, now," he chuckled faintly. "Blimey." 

Greg grinned. 

"So, what'll it be?" 

"Lager," Steve nodded with a slow smile. "You utter arse, Greg Lestrade." 

"Never bite the hand that feeds you- or, at least, buys your drinks." Greg grinned, now almost cocky. Steve replied with a deferential nod, draining the last dregs. 

"Bitter for me," Chris chipped in. 

"Neil?" 

Neil was still staring at, or rather through, his pint mug, chewing the inside of his mouth. Chris watched pityingly. Finally, as if with great effort, Neil stood, and held out a hand, not to Greg, but to Mycroft. 

Smiling warmly, Mycroft cracked his neck as if preparing for a great feat, then stood, shaking the proffered hand. Greg pushed himself upright off the stool. 

"And your verdict?" 

"Firm handshake," Neil smiled. "He's alright." 

"Lager?" Greg asked exasperatedly. 

"It'll do," Neil nodded, settling back into his seat. 

Mycroft followed Greg to the bar. 

"Thank goodness he didn't try to break my hand." 

"Why?" Greg asked. "I'm sure you'd have come up with something." 

"What about me," Mycroft asked, "suggests an aptitude for anything physical?" 

Greg kissed him on the cheek, murmuring, "I've seen you in bed." 

"Oi," an interjection from the barman brought Greg to his senses. "Not 'ere." 

"Sorry. Three lagers, one bitter and a glass of house red." 

"No. Not 'ere you don't." 

He went back to wiping glasses with a rag. Greg turned to Mycroft with a sigh. 

"Well." 

"My place?" 

"It'll have to be." 

He tossed two pound notes towards the table as he followed Mycroft out. 

"Sorry, lads. Turns out I'm barred." 

He might have been drinking pints at that boozer since long before he was legal, but frankly he couldn't care less about the fact he'd never drink another. 

"You should hand the application in, rather than carrying it around," Mycroft spoke up once they were outside again. 

"What?" Greg asked, confounded. 

"In your back pocket. There's an application form for Somerset and Bath Constabulary. They'd do well to accept you." 

Greg looked. There was indeed a tiny sliver of folded paper bearing the Constabulary's crest peeking out of his back pocket. 

"You've been staring at my arse," he accused. 

Mycroft smirked. 

"Very good. They might even make you a Detective one day."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for being on board the whole time; I've been dealing with the stress of moving house and your comments and kudos have given me life.


End file.
